


Fourteen Minutes

by Mandibles



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Bed Humping, Frottage, Gen, Masturbation, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rutting, Sleep deprivation makes me write strange things
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-05
Updated: 2012-11-05
Packaged: 2017-11-18 01:19:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/555287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mandibles/pseuds/Mandibles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I wrote Scott humping a pillow. You can't tell me the fandom didn't need this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fourteen Minutes

**Author's Note:**

> I should probably be sorry. I'm not.

Most teenagers hate it when they wake before their alarm clock starts blaring, quickly dropping back to sleep, but, warm and fuzzy in his tangle of sheets, blankets, and the pillow that’s left its place under his head, these moments when his eyes flick open to the green LED glow of his clock are Scott’s favorites. On his side, he turns his face into the sheets, smiles muzzily to himself as his hand makes a slow drag down his shirt, his stomach, and pauses at the waistband of his boxers where his morning wood hangs heavily to the side.

Scott exhales deeply though his nostrils as he curls his hand around the thickness of his erection, rubbing, rolling, in firm, rough, back-and-forth, up-and-down motions that make his chest tight, the tingling heat of pleasure making his toes curl around the edges of the blanket. It doesn’t take him long for his breath to hitch, for him to start panting, for him to rock into his hand with rolls of his hips that make his heart flutter anxiously. No one in particular crosses his mind here; there’s only himself, his own body, and he kills for these moments he can just touch himself, be with himself, which has been rare commodity in the past few months.

Fourteen minutes. He has fourteen minutes.

He dips his hand beneath the waistband and—oh Jesus—he’s just so hot, like his cock is just burning with this frantic need to come, a desperation that blossoms, spreads in his chest. He moans shallowly, quietly into the sheets as he strokes the length of his cock. The dry drag of a thumb up the vein along the side, over the ridge of the fleshy mushroom head, and the spotting of slick at his slit makes him shudder until his fingers shake, his back arching into a bend as he pushes into the tight circle of heat.

And, man, he just wants to come, you know? As much as he’d kill to draw this out, to stay in the warm bundle of his bed for the rest of the day, stroking and pulling and twisting and squeezing until his balls ache and he’s drenched in a filthy, sticky mess of his own come—he supposes every teenaged guy has a fantasy like that once or eight times—but, he only has a measly Twelve minutes now. Twelve minutes to quell the tension behind his sac for a full day of class and a fuller day of werewolf shenanigans.

But, right, coming though. That’s a thing he wants.

Reluctantly dropping his cock, the muscles of his stomach contracting as his hand creeps out of the waistband in a tickling path, he reaches for his pillow that teeters dangerously on the edge of the bed. He pulls it beneath him and pushes himself quickly above it, sighing when he pulls his erection from the slit of his boxers, curved upwards and dark with blood in the scant morning light streaming from the curtains. He runs a quick hand of his set, down his cock to his heavy balls with the boxers tight beneath, humming at the touch, then arranges into a familiar position, dropping to hug the pillow to his chest, his knees braced into the mattress, and his legs splayed behind him.

What comes next is almost as natural as breathing.

Scott’s mouth drops open at the rough drag of cotton against his cock as he slides it where pillow meets mattress, his teeth scraping across the sheets in a quiet sound. He pumps his hips once and—oh, _fuck_ yeah—scrunches his eyes shut at the sharp punch of pleasure, a giddy laugh bursting from his lips, loud in the quiet of morning. This marks the tone for the rest of this, how he thrusts into the tight place he’d created with a grin tugging at his mouth, his back arching and his shoulder blades, ass flexing as he moves his hips. He settles on a rhythm, a fast pace, that makes the bed shift and creak just enough to make him hot from his own desperation, but not so much that the headboard hits the wall too hard. It’s enough, just enough, to hump as wildly as he needs to come quickly, come hard.

It doesn’t take long for the feeling to build, pleasure to make his balls tight and draw up as he nears that final threshold, that goal line at the end. He never used to do this before he was bitten, he never used to wake mornings, eager to rut into his simple, innocent pillow like it was some needy bitch in heat. It’s the animal that brought this out in him, the wolf that has him growling low into the mattress in mixed spikes of pleasure and pain, the dry scratch of fabric against his sensitive cock on the line separating rough and abrasive. Still, that’s makes this good, makes it wild, makes it—it—

 _Shit_.

He slams his hips down, a strangled sound ripping from his throat, and his whole body just goes rigid, gasping through a sudden onslaught of spasms, starting in his legs and trailing to his arms.

But, he doesn’t come, not yet. Close, close close close, but not yet.

He’s no longer thrusting now; he grinds his swollen cock between pillow and mattress, grinds and grinds, painfully aware of the sticky precum soaking the material the closer he gets to coming. A stretch of whines slides through the air, his mouth slack, and his punctures holes into his pillow as the lights of his alarm clock shift, eight minutes left, seven minutes, six—

“Fuck, please,” he babbles into the mattress, voice tight and pleas nonsensical, “Please—fuck—I just—just— _fuck_ —”

Five—four—three—two—

Rhythm gone to shit, control even worse, Scott finally comes with a sharply bowed spine, hips jutting, twitching, as he pumps a disgusting amount of come, soaking the sheets, his pillow with it. He bites his lip to quiet himself, huffs and rocks his hips shallowly through the pleasured spasms and jerks of his orgasm, until the fierce intensity of it tapers and his tense muscles ease, unfurl. He drops himself on the bed, sprawled, and he stares blankly at his clock, waiting for his heartbeat to calm, too, for the rush of blood in his ears to quiet.

7:01. His time’s up.

He laughs lightly. But, he’s just so _tired_ now.

Scott pulls the pillow back up under his head, cringing at the wet sound it makes, and curls around it, clutching it close to him. And, he barely bats an eyelash before he’s out cold.


End file.
